


A General Engagement

by Maggie_Nowakowska



Series: Masters of the Game: Lando Calrissian [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-13 20:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7985323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maggie_Nowakowska/pseuds/Maggie_Nowakowska
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How did the rebels convince Lando Calrissian to join the Alliance when even “Don’t tell me the odds” Han Solo told him that attacking a new Death Star was not a smart deal?</p><p>Who convinced Lando? Who conned the con man?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A General Engagement

**Author's Note:**

> Back in the 1990s, I wrote a couple of stories to give Lando some background and some respect [see Masters of the Game: Part 1, ODDS, and Part 2, ALYESKA WILD CARDS].
> 
> I also wrote a few for the mysterious Senator Mon Mothma who, for twenty years, somehow managed to hide from the Emperor the kind of Alliance involvement that would leave her in charge of the Alliance when her partner in founding the rebellion to restore the Republic, Bail Organa, was no long around.
> 
> How did she do that? I suspect that Mon Mothma did not have an easy life during the Empire. I think it's possible she gambled that she could disguise her Alliance activities in these ways: by seeming to be just as corrupt as the rest of the Senate; by encouraging the satisfaction she knew the Emperor took in watching just how far a Senator could fall from Republican grace; and, by working hard an extraordinary talent for persuasion and misdirection.
> 
> Finding herself out of the Senate and in charge of the Alliance didn't lessen Mon Mothma's need to be clever. Rescuing Han Solo wouldn't mean that Lando Calrissian wanted to join whatever the rebels were up to next. I thought the story lines I had for the two characters could easily cross the before the battle over Endor when the Alliance needed all the help it could enlist to destroy yet another Imperial Death Star. So, here, I let them do just that.
> 
> "Masters of the Game: A General Engagement" was first published in the print fanzine, Imperium 5, Imperial Press, 1995.

* * *

 

 

_Headaches. Lando could well imagine the three-year long headache Mon Mothma of Chandrila had endured since cut off from her contacts in the corrupt and disbanded Imperial Senate. Nasty portside rumors suggested that the source of the Senate President’s pain had been an addiction to the Emperor himself, such close attention she paid the old monster. So, maybe, the Alliance allowed her on board the RSS ALDERAAN as a valuable, if expensive, piece of traitorous capital._

_Calrissian was impressed; he had not found Leia Organa or any of these eager rebel officers likely candidates for such slippery compromise._

_Here was someone whose motives would not as bright, nor so difficult to understand._

_Here was someone who spoke to Lando’s chosen indulgence in the chancier side of life._

 

* * *

 

 _At the Alliance fleet rendezvous,_  
_somewhere outside the Sullest System_

 

Han Solo came up the  _FALCON_ 's lowered ramp. "Brass on board," he murmured as he slipped past Lando Calrissian at the open hatch.

"I thought you were due offship in sick bay," Calrissian muttered back. 

Turning, Han laughed. He spread his arms wide and walked backwards down the corridor. "Forgot something Cap," he sang out as he disappeared to the rear cabins. "An  _oversight_  you could say!"

Lando laughed back at him. After all the fretful days between losing the Corellian on Bespin and rescuing him from Tatooine, it was good to hear Solo joke, even with sick word-play on his still-hazy vision. Oh, there were wounds to lick between them yet, and apologies to be replayed a few more times if Lando knew Han — and he did — but the important parties had escaped Jabba the Hutt's clutches in working order. The  _FALCON_  sat safe in a rebel cruiser bay, in the middle of a rebel fleet hidden far away from civilized disorder. 

This docking was, in fact, just like the old days, with him making the shut-down rounds on the  _MILLENNIUM FALCON_  while worrying after the Corellian like a hoary, old uncle. Han reappeared soon enough, a heavy holster hanging off his shoulder. Lando wondered how many back-up weapons Solo had stashed behind some panel on the  _FALCON_. The blaster that Vader ripped out of Han’s hand was probably laying in some damn Imperial catch-all bin on Bespin; and it wasn’t the first one lost in misadventure, if he remembered the morning after that New Year party on Commenor correctly.

 _As if a DL-44_   _were a vital necessity for a visit to the medics._

Lando couldn’t fault the man for his affectation. Han Solo without a modified 44 quick to pull was an artwork unfinished, a program unable to run; after this last deal with Jabba, the Corellian was probably welded to an ugly gun for life.

Through the ramp struts, Calrissian caught a glimpse of Leia standing with Chewbacca offside the bay entry. Han was likely bound just as long to that tidy package of nerve and mayhem waiting to walk him and Chewie to sickbay. _Brass on board, indeed._ Lando smiled to himself at the memory of the outfit with which Jabba had plated Leia Organa's indomitable self-respect. _You read that one wrong, you pocky slug._

Han would never find better metal to match his own than the Alderaani who stood below, not even on this floating would-be Star Fleet Central that the Alliance called the  _RSS ALDERAAN_.

The last comp tattletale glowed silver with completion when the  _FALCON_ _'s_ erstwhile captain left the ship's cockpit to its mechanical musings. With his boned helmet in hand as a grisly souvenir of too many cycles in the Hutt's employment and a light personal pack slung across his chest, Calrissian followed Han's lead down into the  _ALDERAAN_  bay. He raised and locked the hatch ramp behind him, then began his perimeter inspection of the battle-worn freighter.

Good ship. Always was; always would be, even on the day its final flight flamed into the nearest star. Lando casually patted the rough skin as he walked, stroking scars he knew the making of all too well. Han would want the freighter back soon. _So it goes._ Lando reminded himself that he had been done with, and well enough shed of, the ship years ago.

"Baron Calrissian? If you are ready to come with us..."

And now it was show time. Personal rebel business gave way to official rebel Intelligence. Waiting in the hall on this polite officer, Lando counted two Alliance security types who would be his own escort into the depths of the  _ALDERAAN_. Half a year had passed since a hasty clearance allowed his help with the rescue of one wayward Corellian, certainly enough time for a more thorough rebel search of his history to raise all sorts of cautious questions.

Today was taken care of; time to find out about tomorrow.

 

Security accepted Calrissian’s verbal report on Solo's rescue with easy grace. The trail of his checkered career was quite thoroughly drawn this time around — "My compliments," Lando nodded. — and put aside as casually as the Alliance officers adjourned their review to a connecting room.

Curious that, but Lando kept his smile bright and followed.

_Ah. Brass on board._

Lando recognized the Corellian intelligence chief, Madine, from the man's review of Lando's plan to rescue Solo; and he noted the sad-eyed Alderaani commander who had so bitterly opposed Leia's involvement in the affair. Brass here, yes, but Lando suspected that the final approval setting Organa free to follow her heart had come from outside the military line of command; these people were not who Han had meant.

The nonhumans were another matter. Three Calamari stood in military rig with the Alliance commanders, while a half-decam Sullisten chirped and chattered to Lando's left. He followed the business news out of Coruscant often enough to pick up references to world families all too familiar with the Empire, and he had been educated as a boy to recognize rank signatures, whatever the culture. With more than a few hard-eyed flight leaders milling around a display table spiked with stand-alone data feeds, Lando understood that he was about to be dealt a recruitment pitch.

Which was odd. The Alliance had pilots. Every able Alderaani caught off-world when Alderaan blew had found a rebel cockpit to sit. And plenty non-homininae races now sidled, crawled, swam and flew to Alliance contacts, finally convinced that Imperial humans who were willing to waste their own kind in such flagrant ways would not hesitate to fry any other inconvenient sentients.

Lando returned the introductions gracefully. He even managed to maintain a game face when his glance fell on a precise holographic representation of a long-ago encounter with the Pesentary gangs over Tanabb.

 _Damn_.

"An elegant solution, Baron," the senior Calmari, Admiral Ackbar, noted.

"Just Calrissian, sir," Lando replied with a wave of polite deprecation. Behind them, he heard an Alderaani grunt of approval at the gesture. "Landed titles," he shrugged, "wash away so easily."

"Then we can give you another."

Calamari were of a forthright culture. Lousy gamblers by human standards because of it, but well known among professional players as a people happy to lose for the simple thrill of a risky bet. Lando liked the ones he had met.

"You work well with many peoples, Calrissian,” the admiral declaimed. “Your record as administrator is excellent and your reputation among at the gaming tables indicates a quick and open mind."

Lando bent into a slight bow.

"More important, we appreciate your accomplishment at Tanaab."

_Uh-huh._

"Let us give you the opportunity to stretch your skills," the Calamari continued. "Let us name you  _General_  Calrissian and welcome you to a game more chancy than even Paridiso's tables."

Now Lando returned Ackbar’s frank stare. "My experience, Admiral, is with pirates, independent traders, and totally irregular situations."

"Precisely," Ackbar agreed. "We need wits, Calrissian, not traditions — and familiarity with the differences among us — for the coming battle."

Battle? Not training, or a lecture on unorthodox strategy, the most obvious translation of this line of persuasion? No wonder the room was filled with experienced fighters.

Even the chatty Sullisten fell silent at the mention of immediate action. That made Lando pause longer. Sneaky, sharp in the seat, and fond of tech, the Empire had made their world industries rich. And yet they were here. The Alliance was here, outside the Sullest system.

Lando looked to the humans for an explanation of the rebels’ generosity with their titles. Madine deferred to Command; the Alderaani whose eyes merely adopted a more sorrowful mien.

"We anticipate a delicate situation," the commander acknowledged reluctantly. "Unpredictable. We need someone who understands naval order, but who is not bound to established practices — Yes?"

 _Rieeken_ , that was his name. Lando remembered very well once his mind kicked into tighter focus at this flattering appeal to any latent death wish he might harbor.

The Alderaani gave his attention to a messenger who had appeared at his side, leaving Calrissian and the others time to think.

 _General._  The Republican rank entertained Lando as he stood there, no longer the center of attention. He knew that such promotions had been common enough in the old days: individuals with special skills were called to leadership of allied planetary fleets when needed and incurred no military obligations when the battle was over. Most often, the device was used to talk Jedi, professional neutrals but efficient when activated, into Republic command for the duration of an inter-planetary conflict. The rank disappeared quite naturally when the Emperor transformed the Republic war fleet in a hard military Star Fleet to police the galaxy on a permanent basis.

 _General._ Born of the Republic, Lando was charmed by the offer; raised to maturity in the Empire, he knew a sucker's bet when he heard one.

The momentary distraction was over. Rieeken, Madine, the up-front Calamari would want his answer. There had been a change in mood in the room though, a heightened anticipation that glowed within the homininae and squid. Even those not privy to the message seemed to understand that more of the  _delicate situation_  spoken of had just surfaced. 

Lando waited for someone to enlighten him. No one did. His restraint in eagerly accepting the offer of  _General_ reclaimed center attention.

If Rieeken or Madine hoped to dicker, Ackbar forestalled their politics. "The time grows shorter, Calrissian," Ackbar announced, "but if you reconsider, we will welcome you."

At first startled by a dismissal without further explanation, Lando decided that he liked the blunt honesty. No one had appealed to any higher motives he might have, either. Although his curiosity over what had so affected the commanders screamed to be satisfied, he understood that the slightest inquiry into Alliance business would be taken as evidence of an enthusiasm merely hidden behind an unexpected, and quaint, shyness.

People didn't dedicate their lives to impossible causes without an irrational source of sentimentality somewhere in their psychic makeup.

Lando himself had not yet encountered any profitable reason to reactivate the same sort of devotion he had left behind long ago with his Maman's exiled House. Yes, he had rescued Han, balancing the dishonor of having so misjudged Vader’s deal on Bespin. However, he had just learned that an Imperial eagle named Veers sat atop his floating city, which was an effective ward against any delusions of heroism. 

He collected his helmet and pack in the outer room. The rebels did provide him with an improved security badge. Set at a tolerant, friendly-supporter level, it was nothing to suggest the rank he had just been offered. Lando could live with that.

Left without anything to do, he visited Sickbay. Solo was under healing goo for his eyes, Chewbacca, deeply sleeping off his shoulder's realignment. The  _FALCON_  might have provided a distraction from any second thoughts, but the ship would have to wait for its Captain to wake up and authorize scheduling ground crew to see to the freighter's needs. 

Lando decided to formalize his report on the Tatooine action at an empty comstation. That took him less than minutes, and — with a harrumph — he discovered that Leia had beaten him to first filing anyway. 

_Damn, doesn't the woman ever relax?_

He was going to have to ask Han about that one day.

Where to go next? Calrissian made his way to the main mess for something to chew on. Once there, the unfamiliar helmet prompted questions from shift-change diners, which filled some pleasant time and allowed him to indulge in a private game of trying to identify the many planetary fleets badges to be seen throughout the galley. 

Neither activity occupied him for long.

His assigned quarters proved easy to find after that, but Lando had nothing to store except Jabba's helmet and nothing to unpack except one used, gangster guard uniform. 

_Now what? How long has it been since life was this unstructured? Years._

Worse for his idle mind, the mood on ship had sharpened in the time passed since his meeting with the commanders. Accustomed to being privy to everything important that happened in Bespin, his ignorance here taunted Calrissian as he made a private tour of the battle cruiser. If this continued, he would find himself sore-pressed not to tackle the next walking uniform he saw and demand to know what the hell was going on. 

Just out of curiosity, of course. He had no intention of enlisting. Friendship had not overridden his loyalty to Bespin, nor had the same loyalty inspired him to demand a horde of crazy rebels to liberate his captured city.

Which — Veers or not — could be done, he was sure of it.

 _Damn._ He thought he had left that idle fantasy on Tatooine, where it belonged, during the long weeks awaiting Leia and the final wreck of Jabba's glory.

Even Imperial Star Fleet understood that business goes on, wars or not, and wouldn't absolutely trash the place. Veers might prove as brutal as the next grey suit, but the Alliance had him down as a practical conservative. Maybe General Madine would have some insight —

 _Double damn._ He had better find something to occupy his restlessness, and quickly. Lando knew himself well enough to understand that the keen survival skills he had acquired, some as edifying as others were not, thrived on challenge. He went to great pains to insure a profitable focus to his chosen activities; when afloat, without a goal, he was vulnerable to the temptation of a puzzle, any puzzle, insane, dangerous, or both.

His management of this failing was not easy. Left without Bespin's eternal conflicts to juggle, and done with escaping Jabba's criminal web, Lando already felt bored. If he did not find a way to busy his hands and mind soon, the Commanders' lure could prove irresistible.

Han would understand, but Han was...preoccupied with his lady.

Lando stopped at a data station in the next corridor intersection. Clearly, it was time to discover where the inevitable floating game of chance could be anchored on this ship. A hand or four would capture his attention wonderfully, and — eh, he couldn’t deny the lure of fascinating tidbits of information that just might be gleaned from inattentive players.

"Baron Calrissian?"

This time it was a human woman who approached him. She had a lithe figure and was tall enough; her dark yellow hair was trimmed short and her eyes dark. That tailored white suit she wore was not a rebel rag-tag special and the silver that spiraled off the right-hand tunic trim from breast to neck measured a rank that had to be cloud-high.

At her call, Lando hesitated, his hand hovering over a ship configuration display. Cards, after all, were only one possible source of diversion and careless talk. He smiled, turned his palm over and held it open to the woman. "Bespin's a far distance away, m'am. Just Lando will do."

A smile in return. "Have you a moment then, Lando, to speak with my mistress?"

Lando masked his bawdy portside interpretation of the request. "I have all the time onboard," he assured the woman with innocence and geniality.

As with the offered hand, this bait was not taken. "Good," she said. Again the smile, but more official, touched with an assumption of compliance and no offer of identification. She gestured at the left corridor. "The bay on the next level is not far."

"Why —?"

"Oh, I certainly don't know." The woman answered as if it were her own puzzle. "I gave up trying to follow her range of thought a long time ago."

She walked with Lando to the lifts. He tried to place her planet family, but she wore no brooch and that silver was unmarked. Her sense of style would have worn well on Bespin, or Coruscant for that matter. She certainly radiated long-held authority. In recognition of the same, when they had risen to the appropriate level, Lando held back to let her exit first. She acknowledged his courtesy and, in return, laid a light, genial hand on his arm. 

"I only follow as best I can, and so I advise you." She paused, adding, "It's safer that way."

 

_Brass on board._

The sidebay was actually a suite of hexrooms gathered around a formally furnished public space and peopled with quiet folk going about quiet business. Lando placed the ambience immediately and granted that perhaps Solo had known what he was talking about. Leia Organa still called herself Senator. It stood to reason that she would smell out any equally empowered visitors immediately upon arrival.

Coming through an archway into the large reception room, they were met by another woman — this one hooded, all in white, and clearly Alderaani by her insignia brooch — who stepped forward with a quick report for the escort. Lando waited, looking about himself, bemused by this pocket of diplomatic civilization within Alliance armor. 

At least his borrowed clothing was not glaringly out of place. The stark linen dress shirt he had borrowed from Han fit the decor, a touch too severe for Lando's tastes, but thankfully not over the edge into Imperial-retentive. 

An image of the tall art piece in Cloud City’s center east plaza came to mind. _Mestro Jorga_   _would do well with these people,_  Lando mused. The man’s sculptures reliably threatened Bespin's soft colors. _Had Jorga escaped when —_

"Hmm?"

His guide’s hand was on his arm again. "Please excuse the dimness,” she murmured, "A headache, you understand?" 

Leading him across the room to their right, to a barrier that looked like nothing more than pearlized ship hull, she fanned the wall back and presented Lando Calrissian to the President of the once Imperial Senate.

 

_This is more like it._

The wall folded shut behind him. Lando felt his body relax into a loose, portside watchfulness as he processed the identity of the woman who stood at a small side table opposite an outer hull star screen.

Mon Mothma of Chandrila. President of the Overly Indulgent Senate. Mistress of Palpatine's Puppets when the Emperor finally cut the last link to history before...well, before  _him_.

The furnishings around her gleamed with titanium-enhanced tints under low, recessed lights creating a cool welcome. The candies that had become the most visual symbol of the Presidency in its later years were close to her hand, glistening in a bowl under the room's dim glow. 

She was as gaunt as the holonews portrayed at the end of the governing Senate, plainly dressed in grey mufti now and plainly presented, her dark hair casually sheared. Maybe late forties, like his guide, both women pale of face and style.

Pale from indulgence as well, if the galactic gossip were only half-right. Those sweets? It was said they were flavored to disguise the scent of rare strains of spice. Compared to Command compliments on a man’s martial skills and promises of responsibility, meeting this woman was far more interesting.

She hadn't said anything yet. No telling what she wanted of him. Lando smiled, made a small bow, wondered if she was spiced right now.

"Baron Calrissian. Thank you for coming." The President held out a palm to greet him. "You do not seem surprised to see me. Why?"

Not what he expected to hear. 

"Oh, I am surprised, Madam," he said. Lando found himself a place on the lounger below the wide starscreen. "But not shocked. I spent midday with a room full of patriots; it's refreshing to find quarters more congenial to dealing." He gestured for her to join him on the couch. "Please."

She did not. She turned a side chair to the table that held her sweeties and, framed by a mirrored wall that reflected the stars, she sat, her gaze intent on her guest.

With no idea what to say and all the time in the world not to say it, Lando stared back. 

The woman's watchfulness was vibrant. Lando’s curiosity was warmed by her intimate attention. His natural inclination to explore profitable possibilities could only flourish under such examination. Was her presence on the  _ALDERAAN_  amid all these desperate Republicans incongruous? Well, he’d figure that out in time. Right now, his silence was growing wearisome, even embarrassing. He should offer some further comment to assure her that he was clever enough to...

Ah, he knew this con.

"Why did you decline a  _general_ ship?" She asked suddenly, glancing at the crystal bowl, selecting a candy. 

Lando held on to his relief that she had interrupted his crass assessment. He'd much rather...what? That he was as pliable as anyone wanting to prove himself worthy before power? He said, with a calculated shrug, “And why would that be any of your business?"

Now came a quiet smile of regard for him, a deep focus that was as seductive as any pretty face or welcoming body. 

 _Tell me who you are; tell me what you are, I must know,_ her gaze said to him _. You intrigue me far beyond what you can do for me._

He knew the trick and still Lando felt its pull, if only in his recognition of skill. It would be so fine to test his wiles against someone who had gamed at such Masters levels as the Emperor's court. It would be a promotion, in fact, like moving up to the Trumpeter's tables where whole cities were anted. Lady Luck had many disguises; no reason She couldn't lay a challenge within the pale, plain confines of an Imperial senator who played with a leanness to match her looks.

"You pay close attention to Court gossip for an obscure administrator," Mon Mothma said into Calrissian's thoughts. "And yet I am here, on an Alliance ship, with —" she gestured slightly, her hand indicating the door and offices beyond "— my staff. Whatever the years behind either of us, Lando Ahmana'son, I can be a friend of yours within this new order."

It was a forgiving reference to the status his Socorran House had lost a quarter-century ago.

Lando throttled down cold. What reasons did the commanders have in their plotting for letting this questionable woman go digging about in a person's files? Did she even have their permission to do so?

No, he didn't follow Imperial politics, not beyond what affected his city or what was bandied about the playing tables. He knew little enough about the Alliance even now. If he could manipulate what knowledge he had accumulated, could extrapolate with a fair amount of finesse, the credit lay at the feet of his Maman and his ever-scheming relatives, not to any intent on his part. His talent provided a gloss on his chosen career, that was all.

And it nurtured enough insight to realize that the layers of political play here were too many for a newcomer's eyes to discern their implications. Mon Mothma's game, whatever it was — and Lando didn't want to know — was no business of his. He rose, walked to the screened archway. She did not follow his movements, but he did not think she was spiced now. 

"I don't believe we have any business to share, Madam," Lando said, bowing slightly.

"A new Death Star is under construction."

She remained sitting, her profile stark in the grey light, the reflected stars bright behind her. "We have the coordinates and fly against it come the new cycle."

There lay her value to the Alliance, in a simple revelation only someone who had lived too close to the Emperor could declare.

The wall opened. Satisfied that he did not startle at the movement, Lando excused himself with civilized formality. "Fair light and peace at night, Madam," he said.

"And to thee, Lando Calrissian," she politely replied.

The reception area, its passing people, were as quiet as when he was guided there. The golden-haired woman shut the wall behind them. She saw him away without comment, but her eyes were not quite clear of assessment. Lando did not chance a second look. The spell cast by the President still hovered. He might want to challenge what this woman thought she saw. He might want to prove himself to her. H might want to prove himself to the other woman behind that wall.

 

The possibility of yet another monster machine roaming the stars screwed its way through Lando's thoughts as he walked away from the challenging audience. Madam's final play was an obvious hook, and he was shaken by the news, no denying that. 

What really disturbed him was the easy way he nearly tumbled to her call. Despite his understanding of the con, the longer he was away from her, the sweeter the possibility of facing such a player again seemed to someone who had won Bespin by wit of hands.

Gods. It was madness to be so tempted. The nortorious President was the sort of trouble to threaten a man's very existence.

Lando needed a place to think, to smooth out his reactions and bolster his personal defenses against the next angle the rebels threw his way. Somewhere coy interruptions wouldn't find him — not the  _FALCON_  or his quarters. 

 

Sanctuary proved difficult to secure on a busy military ship. Outside a small galley not far from the main hangar bays, Lando remembered his new, trackable, security badge. Well, maybe the spare offerings here would discourage  _brass-on-board_  folks from bothering for him.

Settling himself at a corner two-top as far away as possible from the counter where two women sat fussing with a live schematic holo, Lando was happy to stare at a wall, sipping hot cha and easing his nerves. When topping off his cup a second time, he heard a faint, but familiar “Ah!” of satisfaction.

Some people you heard once and never forgot again. Calrissian turned to look and tried not to be surprised to see Leia Organa walking over to the service station.

While the Alderaani busied herself at the cha dispenser, Lando entertained a moment's fantasy that simple coincidence had brought Organa to this nether end of the command ship. Perhaps, some errand at Han's request had her searching the working bays and needing to get back to him.

But, no, although the techs spotted Leia and called out to her, she stopped by only long enough acknowledged their project, praise it, and excuse herself. In mere moments, Leia was standing by Lando’s table.  She sipped at her cha, and with a questioning lift of an eyebrow, waited for permission to sit. 

Lando would not have bet against the reason for her visit, or her courtesy.

"I'd say something inane about the efficient gossip-chain on board," Calrissian growled, "but you mix in elite circles. An hour is probably more than sufficient time for the order to grill me further to reach you."

Leia accepted that as an invitation. She sat down and added a small sheet of sweetener into her drink, letting it dissolve as she silently regarded Lando.

"Better add some more." he advised. "Han likes his women comfortably built."

"You  _are_  in a rude mood today, aren't you?"

"Not really. Just a bit jaded."

Her eyes narrowed; Lando saw the inclination to joust in them. He was ready for her.

Instead, she took another sip of cha and politely said, "Jaded. By what?"

"Spice-dipping senators getting the High Core treatment, for starters." Lando crossed his arms. “ _Brass on board_ ,” he quoted.

Ah, he had her attention now — no, her confusion. Leia took a moment to puzzle the reference, then to glance aside and measure their distance from the techs at the counter. She make a decision and lowered her voice. "You're talking about Mon Mothma," she said.

"No, never."

He had seen her reaction before, on Bespin:  _Lando is someone I have to dirty my hands with,_ was how he interpreted the set of her lips.

He felt a need to explain, an honest one this time. Perhaps it would help him understand his disquiet. "You're all focused on eliminating Palpatine," Lando began, "with not a word about the system that let him and his Empire come to power. So you win. Get rid of the wizard. Do you just replace one failed power-broker for another? And a junkie at that, game to bidders?”

Calrissian picked up his cup, drank deeply. "It was the reform movement that opened the door for Palpatine," he told the young woman, "but reform was needed. Coruscant had become too corrupt to respond to real problems. If you want people like me to accept the Alliance, you've got to come clean of the whole, stinking mess. The old senators won’t be trusted.”

"Really."

"Yes, really." Lando surprised himself with his vehemence. "The Empire and my family's opposition to it taught me how to roll with the dice. What were the rules and means you learned to succeed, Senator Organa? The legacy of twenty years of Palpatine's views on discipline and order? Or, maybe, how to survive the purges and maintain one's standard of living, by Mothma of Chandrila?"

"You're serious." Leia's stare held wonder in it. 

Lando knew this look, too, had seen it in Han whenever the man started believing his own spiels. Made for each other, these two were. The boy Luke might be the craziest of the three, but at least Skywalker had maintained his distance from Calrissian. Han, when the odds were too terrifying to talk about, and this woman of his and her rebellion, were inclined to dive into their fantasies, never noticing who they dragged in after themselves.

"Do you ever listen to news reports your people don't generate?" Lando asked. "Look, I've had a lot of strange experiences in my life, been dragged from one side of this galaxy to the other by Capt. Hotshot, but nothing beats having Palpatine's pet President try to talk me into a one-way run for the sake of The Cause."

She frowned. "Now you've completely lost me."

"Come on. They sent you down here with a last and best offer. Don't deny it."

"Lando, I don't know what —"

"And you're nowhere as good at it as her ladyship.” He stood; he needed a whole pitcher of cha the way this was going. Before she could say anything more, he added, “Which is a compliment, whatever you might think."

The techs were making ready to leave when Lando grabbed a handful of sweetener leafs to go with the cha. By the time he sat back down and poured himself a hot cup, he and Leia had the room to themselves. 

She looked irritated, puzzled. She held out her cup for a warm up. He obliged, resisting any temptation to modify his assessment of her motives.

"Thank you.” Changing the subject, Leia said, “Do you know where Han is?"

"In hospital."

"He's finished there."

"Then I haven't the foggiest."

Organa considered a moment longer, added, "I think he's talking with Command."

"If they're making him the same offer they made me — and he accepts — I suggest taking a second look at the available males on this ship. It's a suicide mission they're after."

She eyed him with something almost like affection. "And going to Tatooine after Han wasn't?"

"Jabba always was a tough nut, Leia, but he's not — he wasn't — Emperor Palpatine or another monster Death Star."

Organa sat back hard against her chair, looked over her shoulder. "Who," she whispered at him, "told you—"

"Guess." Lando felt a surge of hope. "Or was it just a hallucination of hers?"

"It's not! And she's not —" Leia leaned forward, her voice still low, but intense. "Mon Mothma is not spiced and not on any kind of drugs, you fool. She IS the Alliance. Who do you think started this whole thing with my father? Who kept us going ever since my father died?"

"The Whills."

"Oh, for —" Leia looked away, composed herself. "Lando," she stood up and gestured at the doorway, "let's walk."

Well, it would be more entertaining than worrying himself silly over unknowns. Lando drank down his cha and followed.

 

“My father was too established, too well-known, for serious subterfuge," Leia told him as they prowled the  _ALDERAAN’s_  corridors. "Mon Mothma was young enough — and already had a reputation for — oh, what did Father say about her jumping into fights? Brash. He said she was too brash.”

The idea struck Lando as funny: the father of Leia Organa complaining about a young woman being...brash.

“Don’t laugh,” Leia snapped. “They plotted together, Father and Mon, and then with others who went public with their complaints and paid the price of their challenge.”

“Who died.”

“Who were assassinated.”

_Yeah, how about that?_

Organa fell quiet for half a hallway. When they had turned into a cross corridor, she continued.

“Father and Mon didn’t give up. The Alliance to Restore the Republic started small, but it started then, the two of them, doing what they could.”

Lando began to hear echoes of the morning’s recruitment pitch. Leia didn’t notice his scowl and kept to her story.

“Father and Mon played a long game. He was the compromised pragmatist — until the Emperor got tired of looking at him. He was warned off and I stepped in. Mon Mothma knew that Palpatine was laughing over the irony with his pet Senators and encouraged them all to think of me as a final compromise of the last of the old-fashioned senators.

“I was so young, so not a threat — ha! Right!”

Leia’s laugh hovered between irritation and a satisfied sneer. _She_ does  _sound just like Han_ , came to mind, but Lando shook off the thought.

“It was all an act. Mon Mothma persuaded Father that she could play the young-but-flexible — and very ambitious — senator who was willing to play along, that she would take advantage of the blind spot that everyone has, she said, even a Sith —“

“A Sith? As in Darth Vader, Lord of the Sith?”

Leia looked incredulous. She swallowed what she was going to say, he could see that. “Worse than Vader, Lando, He’s just a ‘Lord’ of the Sith. Palpatine is Vader’s own Sith Lord, the Master.”

Lando stopped. Jedi. Sith. He didn’t care about that nonsense. He understood ranks, and what really caught his attention was, “And she thought that she could play him? The Emperor, not just Vader?”

“See?” That short, sharp catch in her throat was back. “You don’t believe it either.” Leia lowered her voice until she was practically whispering. “She told Father that if it was possible for a soul to keep its mind to itself — and she was old enough to have seen Jedi do their tricks — then she could do it, too. The Force in everyone, that argument.”

They turned another corner and paced a long corridor that yawned open to hangar bays at regular intervals. Alliance personnel were everywhere, passing them, hailing the senator and princess with enthusiasm and, on occasion, even nodding at Calrissian.

“And she did it, Lando, for years. The Emperor laughed at the woman she appeared to be and let his people tell terrible stories about her...” Leia shook her head. “She just swayed with the nastiness and fell clear of Palpatine's perceptions — projections — mind-reading — whatever it is he does that gives him such power over people. I don't have words for it. Ask Luke.”

“Huh. I don’t think I’ll bother him.” Lando turned away from the idea, looking into the hanger on their right.

_Damn, but those were old model fighters!_

“Red Leader!” Organa stood high on her feet waving, waving from the hangar entrance, calling out to the dark-haired man who stood by a ladder up to an X-wing. Lando recognized him as one of the pilots in the war room. The man waved back then climbed up into his ship.

“Wedge Antilles, our best. Don’t tell Luke I said that,” she advised when she turned back to Lando.

They walked away from the bays.

“All I know,” Leia returned to her odd story, “is that maintaining her — disinterest — worked for Mothma, but left sick with mind-storms. Right up to...our last chance. The Death Star plans.” Again a pause, but shaken off. “And the headaches still come. There's no Senate and no Bail Organa to protect, but now Palpatine knows full well that she leads the Alliance.”

She shook her head slightly. "I've heard all the rumors. I just didn't think anyone off Coruscant paid attention to the holonews scandal shows. I am sorry, Lando. I didn't realize that no one had told you about Mon."

He believed Leia on that. He hadn’t paid attention, not until he had to, until Bespin needed him to follow the gal-net regularly.

They walked some more.

Lando considered what Organa revealed. "No,” he decided, “It can’t be. Come on, Leia, no one's that good at the game. As the Jedi proved by getting caught short."

"Well," Organa said, "if anyone, you should know how hard a job it is fool people."

"Look, the Emperor wants everyone to think that he’s one big irresistible soul-eater --”

“He is, believe it.” 

“But what about Vader? He's the pragmatic handyman, sucking traitors out of their hidey-holes. Why didn’t he suss out that she couldn't be trusted?"

The probabilities were impossible for all that the woman's survival argued against Calrissian's objections. He’d give her points for her focus — his professional assessment of it had gotten him out of her presence as soon as possible.

Maybe once in a generation a gambler succeeded at consistently beating high odds, and, if an ordinary player's timing were good, the opportunity to deal and lose against such a pro would come. It would be a chance to study the best, to learn, and to take a story of The Big Play into retirement. Lando understood the appeal, had been fighting it since leaving the President's office.

But the legendary players, the once-in-a-century Masters of Generations were approached with greater caution; a wise soul stood by and learned from watching other poor saps play and lose. Ordinary gamers listened to the survivors, and blessed their own births in less interesting eras. The Masters were hungry sorts, and more than money was lost in their games.

Palpatine was such a Player. Lando's Maman, and Aunts and Uncles — experienced gamblers all — had misread the ways of the new Emperor and lost their House in the new deal that Palpatine established. If Mon Mothma had stood the game beside the Emperor for so long and into this last, violent round of play —

Lando shuddered. "I'm surprised," he said, "that you all aren't as terrified of her as you are of Palpatine."

They had crossed the wide ship by now. The entry to a galley, twin to where they had met, stood open just a few steps away.

"I've always wondered about Vader's part in it," Leia said as if she hadn't heard. "He's always been there, like an impenetrable wall, stopping any story Father told. He warned me away from Vader, which was reasonable, considering what Father said happened to my parents."

She paused for a step or two, then said, "There's nearly no one left from that generation who could possibly know what really happened back then. Except the Emperor. Vader."

Lando stared at the thick braid atop Organa’s head. Had he heard right? “I didn’t know that you weren’t —”

"One day — that last year? — Father told me that it was Vader who killed my mother. Not stormtroopers. Not the Emperor. I never found any record." She faced Lando, her eyes sharp. "And I've thought that very odd."

This was interesting, yes, but not relevant. Lando gestured at the galley door. "Ship air's dry and you’ve been talking. I don’t see anyone in here. Shall we take advantage of the solitude?"

 

Fortunately, the cha feed here was full. It took Lando no more than a moment at the counter spout to fill a pitcher and grab some sweetener. Leia found seating across the room from the gurgling dispenser at a corner two-top hugging a wall, the same as in the other galley. 

Lando put pitcher, cups, sweet leaves on the table and took the chair on the right. He slid a cup to Leia and, as he poured her cha, he threw out a hook to keep the story on track "I thought you'd know the President pretty well," he said.

But if Organa heard, she didn’t answer.

She sipped at the cha, made a face and reached for the sweeteners. She floated two leafs, then, with a small, wry smile for Lando, added another, letting it dissolve as her gaze drifted away, over his shoulder.

"Do you remember the wars, Lando?” She said suddenly.

“From a distance. I remember what happened afterwards, when everything went to hell.”

“How old were you?”

“Sixteen.”

“You’re older than Han!”

“But nowhere near as old as Chewie.”

They both grinned and clicked cups, then clouds rolled back in on Leia, chasing the distraction away. "My mother died when I was very young,” she confided, her voice softer than Lando had ever heard it. “I wasn’t the only child orphaned by the Separatists.  All Father would ever tell me was that they were lucky he found me. I probably just remember what I was told, and yet...

"I remember a sad man with a beard. It's like it was in a dream, but I’m sure of it. I hear him telling me that that my mother was beautiful and smart. Now, why would I dream of a beard? No one in Court wore facial hair back then. It’s silly.” Leia frowned. “But, I see her looking sad, like him. I see her through his voice.”

Carefully, unsure of his ground, Lando spoke to his cha. “No one ever said anything else?” He chanced a quick glance up. “It’s hard to believe that there was no Court gossip."

Leia started. "That’s right. You grew up in an Elder House court. You know all about whispers and knowing looks.”

“How do —“ Lando dropped the complaint. Leia had the chops; if not from the President, she had probably heard all about him from Security after he and Chewie flew out to Tatooine. “Yes, all the secrets,” he agreed. “My Maman loved intrigue, even among her House clans, so long as she could use what she knew...and you didn't.”

Leia added, “All the questions  _'Better left unsaid, dear.'_ Or _, ‘When you’re older, we’ll talk it then.’”_

They both almost laughed.

“And,” Leia ran an idle finger along the rim of her cup, “after a while, you just stop trying.”

“Yeah.”

“Even when I did try, I got nowhere. Everyone was so circumspect.” She finished her cha, heard the noisy group of Sullusten that Lando saw coming into the room, and  leaned forward, keeping her voice low. 

"In the Senate, I overheard something —“ Leia cocked her head to keep the company in sight, “— that led me to believe that my mother and Mon knew each other. I tried to make a connection between them. I asked Father. I wanted to ask Mon. I wasn't encouraged."

"Most likely true, then."

"I agree."

Lando leaned in himself. He said, "Why don’t you just ask her now?"

But that question reached too far into this unexpected, intimate chat. _Something stopping the story_ , she had said just moments ago. He certainly did feel a wall slam down between them.

Not for the first time, Calrissian wondered if Solo truly understood the social expectations, complications, he would encounter should he stay with Leia. Han had his own secrets, no different from any other spacer, but smuggler or one-time, would-be Imperial officer, Solo lived a more straight-forward life than either Leia or Lando.

The private conference was over. Organa pushed back her chair and stood. "What difference would it make now, with everything...tomorrow? As I said, sometimes you do stop asking questions."

For a moment, Lando thought he saw the same puzzled look that had appeared when she told her dream story. When Leia had replaced her chair back under the table, he murmured, "A second Death Star. Truth?"

The familiar veil of skepticism returned to Organa's eyes. "I wonder why she told you. However badly they want your skills, it's not something casually told to uncommitted people. Not yet."

No, he didn't think so, not before Command figured out how to approach all the volunteer planetary troops with its guarantee of momentary glory — and little hope of answering a post-battle roll call.

"Leia," Lando began again, hearing himself and not believing that he said, "I'm going to stay here and watch the cha cool. If, afterwards, I find my way back up-deck, would that aide-de-camp still be running interference?"

She studied the wall, tapping her fingers on the table. "There's a lot I don't know — or want to," she said. "Something's driving the office right now. Something touchy. I can't promise anything."

Lando felt his own headache coming on. "Can't say the idea's worth anything myself. Don’t look now, but some people want to talk to you."

"Hello!” Leia's voice was ready when the Sullesten walked up. “Give me moment and I'll be with you.” She smiled at Lando.” “Baron? If you see Han Solo, tell him I'm looking for him. And thanks for the chat."

"Sure thing, Senator," he said, but she was gone with her responsibilities.

The room was soon empty again. The cha had gotten cold. Lando sat, elbows on the table, both hands around his cup. His gaze was on the starscreen across the room. His attention was someplace else, somewhere far away.

*

_Mid-afternoon in a calris-iron mining settlement on a far-away moon. Dry, thin air, dusty and white on a hot plateau. Constant whirring in a man’s ear, just beyond clear hearing, from the shafts sunk deep, then branching off with vibrating tunnels under roads and homes and anywhere a body stepped._

_Maman called him to the dark coolness of her rooms one day. A private call, direct to his link. Not waking the Aunts, napping in their afternoon rooms, dreaming of restoration; not disturbing the Uncles in their lazy midday card games under a clouded plastic dome. No suggestion of rumors to titillate the cousins, those who still waited for the House to return to Socorra and glory._

_He considered ignoring the call, but habit was strong and his own hopes of advancement had not vanished, not yet. He found his way to his Maman's rooms where she answered the door herself, taking hold of his arm with her thin, strong fingers, pulling him in, quickly, quietly._

_A young man's pridepack sat on her table, atop a travel cloak and beside it, a tooled, dark leather and fully stuffed carryall._

_"You will go now, Enna's son," said his Maman. The seals on his pridepack echoed her decision: in his Maman's eyes, he was a man and did not need to wait until the midyear's ceremonies for her judgment and blessing. She waited as he ran the back of his hand across the crest impressed in plexiwax on the pack’s sling where it would sit, just below his shoulder._

_He frowned when he looked back at her. "I've done as I ought, Maman." He paused, amended his claim. "More than the others."_

_"Yes, Enna's son. You have. Now you must take your cleverness and energy elsewhere. This House will not dance."_

_"I don't care about the politics any more, Maman. You know that."_

_She smiled without joy. "You don't know what you care about yet. If the wager you seek were part of the lesser life, you would have left with the others. The House cannot afford the attention you will surely earn. Leave, with my blessings, but leave still." Maman picked up the pridepack, so carefully collected since before Lando's birth. "Take it. If good change comes before I die, and if you wish it, our House will welcome you again."_

 *

Lando raised his cup, pressing its cold curve his against forehead. He closed his eyes. Furious at his dismissal, even if from a refuge he had come to despise, he had spurned his Maman's blessings. Grabbing only the carryall and cloak, he left her holding her damned pridepack, useless relic of a life lost to the Emperor's new order.

Later, he found the price of a starship hidden in the travelling bag and more: what had been an hour's worth of winnings at a game during the House's glory proved to be a year's worth of hand-to-mouth living in exile. He swore at his Maman's bribe, but he used it. He patched together a name, Calrissian, to remind himself of that moon and it’s hard, black, unforgiving ore. He never looked back, not when flying the  _FALCON_  his inheritance provided, not when signing the name of one deep-grave mining station to the deed of one as high as heaven in the sky.

He'd been a decent ship's captain, a better gambler, an honorable administrator.

And, Maman was right. It had taken twenty years, if a man discounted the occasional disagreement with authority during that time, but he had indeed come to the attention of the Empire. For all that his companions had proven themselves much more dangerous to Imperial security — Leia, Luke Skywalker,  _and you, Han, old buddy_  — the intelligence about the company that Lando Calrissian, the Baron of Bespin, Enna's Ahmana'son, now kept was surely known to the boss of the Imperial Admiral who sat as military viceroy of Bespin.

Mon Mothma’s Alliance had known easily enough.

Lando drank down the cold cha. There was no help for any trouble his family faced for what he had already done; most likely his House was empty, through death or dispersion or desertion. The deprivation Bespin had suffered already was beyond his relief; most likely any claim the city or he might make on one another was lost in the short memories of transient peoples disappointed in their governor. 

Lady Luck laid the paths of all their lives. All he could offer to improve the hands he had helped deal to his House, to his city, was the skill with which his Lady had blessed him. 

If he decided to take that gamble, now that the stakes were as high as — well, never mind. Lando sat back and sighed. And what else was he doing with the rest of his life?

 

The President's offices were quieter than before. It was late into second cycle, yes, but — something had happened. Lando's request for an audience vanished into an inner office and while he waited, he watched. Now on the Game, alive to every nuance of expression and gesture encountered, his nerves hummed with tension borrowed from the unsettled staff.

His query returned with the aide-de-camp, her posture composed, her manner not at all enigmatic.

"You will be brief," the woman said, a direct order so softly mouthed a person might misread its force. Calrissian did not. The woman fairly glowed with angry distress. She studied him a short, hard moment. He nodded.

Lando was led into the large reception area then through an archway opposite his earlier entrance. They walked across two smaller hexrooms, waiting areas it seemed, and into a third. Here the woman stopped, laid a hand on Lando's arm in repeated warning, then left and keyed the last entry shut behind her.

This room was even darker than the others. A single glow, deeply shaded, lit a small inner corner desk set. Opposite, under a tinted star screen, the deep gloss of a nearby table and formal chairs barely caught enough dim desk light to shimmer with pinprick highlights. 

The wall by the desk opened. Lando turned to greet a woman he could barely see. 

"Baron Calrissian. You have had a long day."

"I — Yeah. Yes." Lando found himself thrown off-guard. The humming tension had been less palpable in this room. Now it was gone, disappearing the moment that inner doorway opened. From Leia's story, Lando could guess where the new trouble was held, tightly in check, betraying no one. "My apologies. I didn't mean for them to wake you."

Was that an office behind her? The door slid shut on a dim clue, a distant wall screen with a map of the galaxy gleaming over a dulled, comp array. 

"I wasn't asleep. Please." Mon Mothma invited him to sit in a lacquered chair. She took the desk seat. Its lamp limned her shaded robe with little more than an emerald sheen; only the contrast of tone revealed her slighter under-gown flowing ungathered to the floor. It took a moment and two more for Lando to make out the features of a face seemingly as dark as his, for him to meet her gaze and confront the attention he already felt.

_Tell me what to do with you, Lando Calrissian._

Lando's emotions flickered over the offer. Pride underwrote them all: excitement, loneliness tasting relief, sympathy longing to reach deeper. Even lust opened a curious eye. So many ways to respond to what the President knew most souls would swear she had said,  _Tell me what to do_ for _you!_

 _With/for_ , how easily the words slid into one another, becoming what a person wanted to hear. Lando thought he might understand, at least a little, the misdirection the President had used to con even a wizardly Emperor. 

Lando pulled a chair away from the table and settled himself, concentrating on simple, physical action to keep his attention where it belonged: with him, here and now, and not with any preconceived notions of just who, and what, this woman was.

The attention lightened, from his efforts or her decision was irrelevant. Lando bowed his head slightly. He said, "Still, I would like to acknowledge the hour. Unfortunately, history is a mindless beast knowing only one direction — forward. Prime cycle is not so long away now, Madam."

"Very pretty." She sounded sincerely amused. "Would you, then, rather ride that beast than be dragged behind?"

"Madam, I would, but you need a  _general_ , preferably someone without ties or alliances, who will do the job and then go home. That's not possible." Lando turned a hand out, he made his offer. "I have a few loose ends to tidy up. Promise me fire-power for Bespin and I'll promise you what expertise I can give." He laid his palm flat on the desk again, the bidding over.

Her left hand shook where she rested it beside yet another shallow bowl of sweet things. Brainstorms, Leia had said. Low lights and quiet; candy to keep energy levels steady. Were there drugs she could take safely here, among friends, Lando wondered, or were the triggers constantly recocked when a person dared to defy a Force user?

And what could be worse news than a second Death Star to set off such an unmanageable reaction?

"Our files on the Ahmana's kinships are up to date and well annotated," she said with a steadiness to belie her obvious discomfort. "Possibilities still wait there."

"There's nothing I can do for the House that Maman cannot do herself. And," Lando shook off the admiration offered in those possibilities. "I was sent away a long time ago to keep the Imperial eye off the families. Surely, you —"

"Understand? Yes. But I have no power to commit troops to Bespin."

"But that's the offer."

She almost smiled. "Perhaps your expert conduct will persuade an allied fleet to join you in your hopes."

He smiled back. "Perhaps you could persuade them for me."

Distaste stung the air. Lando did not react to the feint nor to her trace of pride when she dismissed his counter offer.

"We are not Star Fleet, Ahmana'son. My authority does not lie in hierarchy."

"Maybe not," Lando simply turned that pride around, "but Leia Organa went to Tatooine at your word." It was a wild guess, but grounded more securely than many other he had bet his life on. 

More than professional approval shifted her attention back into a conciliatory mode. "I have little to tell you, Baron," she murmured, “about juggling responsibilities.”

A beat. She added, "So, that title still holds some appeal?"

Another beat. "It's a job."

A smile. "A man with your skills doesn't need a job."

Compliment or not? Lando shrugged off the distraction. "Let's just call it something I've decided to do," He said.

"Why?"

"No business of yours."

She looked aside; made no judgment, just took her attention away. Lando caught himself explaining before he thought, "I won Bespin straight on the table. _I'm_  the one to say when that game's over, not some walking tin-can bully —"

Lando shut up. Her eyes met his again and they were satisfied.

"You want to play, Baron, you want to deal. But I hold the deck." She turned her hand over on the desk, steady now and open, catching light on white skin. "Your game, I'm told, is sabaac. I know it. Shall we cut and play?"

Startled, Lando hunted her face for sign of humor, but the constant Player he had seen in her from the beginning showed clearly. "Madam, be serious. I don't need to take Bespin. You do need, very badly, to stop that new Death Star."

"Thank you for the consideration. Very well. You win; you get your troops. I win; I get my  _general_  free and clear." She leaned back slightly to open a desk drawer and rummage through it. "I would not advise you — ah, where are? — to underestimate  _my_  skills."

"Never." Lando sat back himself. "And I won't play. You set me up to play  _general_  either way, win or lose."

"But you  _are_  willing to accept the rank."

"Under certain conditions. Not these."

She closed the drawer, her hand empty. She took that hand and laid it palm flat. "But, that's the offer, Baron."

Her expression was faint as she continued, "If you don't accept it, you know we will demand nothing of you. But —" She leaned forward, her face shadowed again, "why else are you here?"

Angry, Lando snapped, "To take care of myself."

"And Bespin."

"Same difference." Damn! He didn't believe he said that. 

Why had he come? To measure the woman against Leia's story. To find a way to make a profit on a sacrifice if it turned out that the woman was the player Organa described.

He stood. The only sane thing to do was to walk out that door and take her no-demands with him. 

The slim hand on the table shook — no, it didn't; it turned, slightly, a sliver of palm showing again, beckoning. "No hold, your startup," she offered, her smile soft, her attention achingly sharp. "My hand — you stay as my  _general_  and no promises. Your hand and we win — you get your troops."

"Madam," Lando sighed. Gods, he wanted to see what she could do in a game; his whole body was tense with wanting to test himself against her hand. "What possible guarantees —"

"None, but my word. Are you a gambler, Baron?"

It was all a game of chance, nothing more, a life of probabilities and the perversity of luck. The best players ever were nothing more than factors in a mathematical equation hovering over a pit of magical thinking. Lando knew this, always had. "Triple series round?" he hedged, braced for her sneer.

"Yes." Mon Mothma stood. The vague light caught a flash of teeth, a full-bodied swirl of robe. The room felt alive with her movements. "I've no cards here," she said, stepping away from the desk. "We'll use my office."

Gods, she  _was_  serious. "Madam President, you don't—"

"Baron Calrissian," she stepped forward, reached out and touched his hand lightly, "I do. And it will be my pleasure, I assure you."

 

The woman played cards. Her deck was old enough to feel comfortable in hand, new enough to stand witness to regular replacements. Did she play with her aide? Lando wondered. The staff? Not her computer; her style was too quirky for that sort of practice. They played at her desk, him sitting outside, Mon Mothma inside, her back to the darkly glowing screen maps. The room’s lights were set just high enough to tease a squint from her eyes if she looked away from her hand too quickly. 

Brainstorms. Lando lost first and tried not to worry the way she calculated, even with a headache.

Neither spoke beyond the necessary. Grace marked their play, and rhythm kept the only time. His manner reflected any subtle inquiries into his strategies; her narrowed eyes cast a distracting mask over any hope of reading hers.

A door behind him opened as Lando won the second hand. Gathering the cards, he did not turn, but said, "My Uncles' favorite pastime was gambling. Cards for the afternoon; stones for nighttime. Hello, again, Mistress. You can see that I have not taken care enough to stay out of trouble."

Over Lando's shoulder came a catch of breath.

Mon Mothma chuckled. She found a half-opened box of creamed wafers on a shelf beside the desk and held it up. "Please?" she told the woman. "A cha pot, too. Green leaf." She glanced at Lando, her eyes bright, " _Moonlight On Silk_ , Baron?"

"My favorite. If you have it."

"Mine also. Of course we do."

The aide's answer was almost a short laugh. Mon Mothma glanced at the woman. "I'm thirsty,” she said softly. 

Lando watched the doorway close. _Old friends; few words necessary._ He looked back at the President. "Your practice foil?"

Between them, the cards sat untouched, waiting.

"Both our families played," Mon Mothma smiled. "Any time of the day. Cards, boards, racers —"

"Politics."

"What bigger game?"

"Many choose lesser stakes, Madam President."

"Perhaps I bore easily, Baron Calrissian."

 

The inner office door opened again. Glass cups just tall enough to fit a hand and a fat glass pot alive with steeping leaves, arrived with a plate of thin white fruit slices. The aide-de-camp set the tray at the end of the desk to Lando's right. She checked the brewing, waited long enough to take a quick, if skeptical, glance at the tally glowing in a the screen at the President's elbow, then tapped the pot to stop. 

"Lovely. Thank you."

The woman waited, perhaps hoping for enlightenment. The slightest of gestures waved her off. When the door closed again, Lando poured while the President divided the fruit between them.

"You have an adventurer's style, Lando Calrissian," she told him. "If my memoirs say I diced for a  _general_  over  _Moonbeams On Silk_ , my critics will accuse me of Romanticizing a bloody day."

Before he could answer, she had restacked the deck and started to deal.

 

Three cards lay in front of Lando. To his left sat his cha, barely cool enough to drink. In his right hand, five starbursts shone briefly then were slid one in back of another, coming to rest, face down on the desk top. Lando’s hand lingered over the cards a moment before reaching for his cup, before he sat back and sipped, only looking up at his opponent when his mouth was no longer dry.

"Commander Mothma," he acknowledged, leaving  _Madam President_  aside, next to his card hand.

"General Calrissian."

He had played well, he knew he had. And she had known she would play better from the start; of that he was convinced. _Moonbeams On Silk_  was hard pressed to provide proper accompaniment to this game, so smooth was its unfolding.

He was angry, but not mad. Felt a fool, but not foolish, whatever the difference was. His cha was still hot, for the godsake! How many few minutes had the last hand taken? He watched the woman gather the cards, her movements graceful, economical, like her game — experienced. 

"You play well," she said. The cards slipped into their case and away under the desk. Leaning her elbows on the dimly lit tabletop, she regarded Lando frankly, her eyes clear of shadow for the first time since they met. "Not choppy. Not greedy." She smiled widely once more, another gleam of teeth to compliment her assessment. "Just a shade too satisfied to win."

Lando shook his head. "Winning is never everything."

"I know those who would debate that issue."

"I didn't mean there's never an exception —" Yes, he did mean it. Whether an Emperor, an Alliance queen, or a portside Corellian hotshot eager to get rich, winning was not everything a body needed, especially when losing was the only possibility of escape. He had argued the subject with Han for years. Now look at Solo, playing hero in an impossible war. Look at himself,  _General Lando Enna’son Ahmana_  and likely dead come this time next cycle.

"I meant, I'm good at my craft, but you, lady extraordinaire, are an artist."

Ah. What did he say? Her eyes darkened. The opened door into the woman's pleasure shut. Lando might have her attention still, and know it was genuine — of course it was, she could not afford to ignore anyone — but now it was no more than a reflection of each other's own ambitions.

Another time to unravel this mystery. If there would be more time.

He stood. "Who should I see? Ackbar?"

"Or Madine. He always knows, at the least, where someone should go." She rose also, her moves measured again, her respite over. "Thank you, Lando," she said, holding a hand out, palm up in gracious gratitude.

He couldn't resist; he asked, "For losing?" And yet he bowed slightly, took her hand, and kissed the back of it in equally fine style.

"Not at all," Mon Mothma told him as he straightened, catching his eye with a last flash of their game's spirit, "for being willing to play."

 

Not much later, Lando stepped from the stall cleaner, his thoughts distracted. He reached for a hand towel to smooth the rough blow of the dry jets out of his hair. 

The reflector switched on as he stopped in front of the sink. One last rub on his head, then he hung the towel around his neck and paused. His hands holding onto the cloth ends, he studied the gleaming reflection of himself. 

He saw a Socorran not so far from his life’s middle years, with a face women still called fair and a body they had not yet complained about. A bit leaner that figure was than the Bespin model, thanks to Jabba’s demands on his crew. 

Still, he stood on the ebbing side of young age, by whomever's count. What  _was_  Han? Four, five years behind? Six? He didn't remember. 

Lando looked at the man he was and weighed the probabilities that this was as old as his body would get. No grey hair to fuss about. No belly to betray his taste for oily fish swimming in rich sauce. No darkening where the lines of face and hands might tell of a long lifetime of adventure and tall tales.

_Well, you did it to yourself, friend. Couldn't resist the sound of an ante hitting the table. Walked away from the FALCON, you did. Walked out of the Trumpeter's Hall when everyone else expected you to turn that city around. But, let a woman shuffle a deck and say, "I dare you," and the old thrill rises like no time at all since the first time._

It had been a chancy play on her part to combine responsibility with reckless risk. It was the game she played herself. Even now, understanding the danger, Lando felt the irresistible shiver of sitting down to dice with a woman who had done so daily with an Emperor.

If they lost, they lost, and no one would know how he had risked it all. If they won — Lando laughed at himself — if they won, who would know still? Mon Mothma was not going to go about bragging that she had bagged a  _general_  with a deck of cards, not by the arch disapproval her aide had offered. Word of Lando’s brash game would get no further. Maybe Chewie would believe him. Maybe Skywalker, with his own strange ways of taking care of business, would be intrigued. Han would laugh, however good-naturedly. Leia? Well, he wished Leia luck in getting half a credit’s worth of anything out of the woman. Organa would have to look somewhere else for any understanding of her mysterious past.

If they won the coming battle... Lando yawned. Sleep was a good idea. As he had expected, Madine was off-line and Lando Calrissian was not yet listed on the override. An hour or two of rest would be gold before a new cycle that was coming fast and furious for everyone.

Lando dimmed the lights and lay back on the sleep shelf. He stared at the curved metal an arm's length above him. Whatever happened tomorrow, he had played at a Master's table, risking his art for a profit that was a promise of Life itself. A man didn't dare ask for more than one chance at such a combination, and, asking, still seldom got it.

And if they won —

 _Thank you for being willing to play_ , she had said. The edged appreciation in her voice, the sharp thrill of anticipation overwhelming anxiety, stayed with Lando. 

 _If the day after came_ — he felt it like a promise between two players privy to the greatest secret of all — _the Game went on._

###


End file.
